Dion felt his cheeks burn in the darkness. Nevertheless, something drove him on, forced him to push his way hardily through a sort of quickset hedge of reluctance and shame.
“No, I don’t expect absurdities. I am not such a fool. But—but you do it so well!”
“Do what well?”
“Everything connected with deception. You are such a mistress of it.”
“Well?”
“Isn’t that rather strange?”
“Do you expect a woman like me, a woman who can’t pretend to stupidity, and who has lived for years in the diplomatic world, to blunder in what she undertakes?”
“No, I don’t. But you are too competent.”
He spoke with hard determination, but his cheeks were still burning.
“It’s impossible to be too competent. If I make up my mind that a thing must be done I resolve to do it thoroughly and to do it well. I despise blunderers and women who are afraid of what they do. I despise those who give themselves and others away. I cared for you. I saw you needed me and I gave myself to you. I am not sorry I did it, not a bit sorry. I had counted the cost before I did it.”